Over at the Bruno Schulz’s Stories website:
IN JULY, my father went to take the waters, and he left me with my mother and older brother, prey to the glowing white and stunning days of summer. We browsed — stupefied by the light — through that great book of the holiday, in which every page was ablaze with splendour, and had, deep inside, a sweetly dripping pulp of golden pears.
Adela returned on luminous mornings, like Pomona* out of the fire of the enkindled day, tipping the sun’s colourful beauty from her basket — glistening wild cherries, full of water under their transparent skin, mysterious black cherries whose aroma surpassed what would be realised in their taste, and apricots in whose golden pulp lay the core of the long afternoons. And alongside that pure poetry of fruits she unloaded slices of meat and a keyboard of calf ribs, swollen with energy and goodness, and algae of vegetables calling to mind slaughtered octopus and jellyfish — the raw material of dinner, its flavour still unformed and sterile — dinner’s vegetative and telluric ingredients with their wild and field aroma.